


No Less Than the Trees and Stars

by strangesaturday



Series: Press your lips to mine / till they are incandescent [4]
Category: Star Trek: The Next Generation
Genre: Beach Holidays, Canon Compliant, Data Has Android Emotions, Episode: s03e16 The Offspring, Established Relationship, Family Dynamics, Found Family, Friendship, Light Angst, Multi, Poker Nights, for my next trick I will write 16k of daforge adding a dependent to their taxes, kid is developed as a character but also used to explore other characters and concepts, self-concept of constructed beings, there are only two Laws of Robotics and they're 1) be gay and 2) do crime, through TNG only
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-08
Updated: 2021-01-08
Packaged: 2021-03-16 08:54:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 16,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28579326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strangesaturday/pseuds/strangesaturday
Summary: You are a child of the universe,no less than the trees and the stars;you have a right to be here.The year is 2391, and as the dog days of Martian summer wind down, Geordi and Data draw closer to the completion of an ambitious project: a new life out of their own being. Welcome to the Soong-type experience, kiddo.
Relationships: Data & Geordi La Forge & Original Non-Binary Character, Data/Geordi La Forge, Geordi La Forge & Deanna Troi, William Riker/Deanna Troi
Series: Press your lips to mine / till they are incandescent [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1952551
Comments: 50
Kudos: 22





	1. In progress

**Author's Note:**

> This is a direct sequel to [In and Out of Love,](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26653102/chapters/64998946) so read that first for sure.
> 
> Both this fic and its predecessor are canon compliant through TNG but diverge from the movies and other shows. I stole the names of the Troi-Riker kids from ST: Pic, but haven’t seen it. Welcome to the big-happy-family-verse, hope your stay is an enjoyable one :)

They chose the name because they liked they way it sounded. No double meaning, no gimmicks, no prophecies— their child would enter the world without the burden of purpose or metaphor. They would be their own person.

For now, they were a brain on the exam table in the lab, nestled in a bed of cables and power cells. The new android would be allowed to acclimate to the world slowly, would be given a chance to conceptualize themselves before taking on such challenges as walking and talking and tasting and prizing the lids off of jars. Things would be different this time— the positronic ghosts that haunted them were owed that much.

Their neural net was not much more sophisticated than Data’s, a reliable formula tweaked and refined over time. In addition to basic knowledge of the material world, a limited vocabulary, and a few select memories to lend their existence context, they were programmed with a set of core principles, the culmination of many earnest late-night conversations that stretched into red-rimmed early mornings, three tenets which the elder android and his engineer reasoned any creature, sentient or not, would do well to live by:

1\. You are not worse or better than any other being.

2\. You deserve to exist as much as any other being.

3\. You are loved.

Geordi wondered what Soong would have thought of their plan. He half-wished the old bastard was with them now, if only to have another set of informed eyes on what they were about to do, even if it meant being laughed at or accused of being excessively soft. Nothing wrong with soft, Geordi thought. The universe was plenty tough already.

They stood before the brain as if awaiting its permission. Data broke the silence:

“Will you do the honors?”

Geordi swallowed. “You should do it.”

Data glanced at him from the corner of his eye. He lifted the brain— a perfect sphere the size of a grapefruit, bright black, bisected with fine seams and trailing bundles of wire— and pressed it into Geordi’s palm.

“Then you must hold them.” His knuckles brushed Geordi’s chest as he reached around the back of the sphere. “Are you ready?”

Geordi gave a nervous grin. “No.”

Data pursed his lips and shook his head minutely. “Neither am I.” And he snagged a fingernail on a tiny switch and activated the brain.

They looked at each other, and did not feel like parents.

Two sets of artificial eyes snapped leftward as text scrolled across the diagnostic console’s screen, then was replaced by a single line.

“Cognitive systems are online,” Data announced, his tone balanced.

A light winked on and their focus shifted to the communication terminal sitting on the exam table. Text populated on this screen as well:

SOONG-LA FORGE-TYPE POSITRONIC ANDROID

MARK 1.0

SLOANE

ACTIVATION DATE 14 08 2391

...followed by a blinking cursor. And nothing more.

“Hello, world?” Geordi offered weakly.

Data folded his hands over the faintly thrumming ball cradled in Geordi’s. “Hello, Sloane.”

☼

It had been decided many months before, on one of those late-night early-mornings, that the new android’s body would be designed and constructed ahead of time.

“Lal picked her own appearance out of thousands of options. Why should this child not be granted the same opportunity?”

Geordi slurred around the sonic toothbrush hanging from his mouth. “Well, for one, they’re gonna grow up Human. Culturally speaking, anyway. So I think they should look like one.”

“Granted.” Data lay across the foot of the bed, head propped on a fist. “But Humans vary widely in appearance.”

“That’s what I’m saying. Look: it makes sense to have a body ready before they need one. And once they’re grown, they can change their appearance however they want.” Geordi retreated into the bathroom.

“Of course.”

“So, why not allow ourselves this little indulgence, and design them to… to look like us?”

“To resemble us as a biological offspring would?”

“Sure. I mean—” Geordi appeared in the doorway, sans-toothbrush, looking a little bashful. “Folks want to see themselves in their children. Loads of people have them for that reason alone. Maybe I’m letting biology get the better of me, but— I like the idea of seeing us in them. Of _you_ seeing yourself in them, the way _I_ see you.” He sat next to Data, who peered up at him attentively. “Listen. Working on this together— it’s felt like writing a love letter to you to. To each other. Our signature is already all over this kid, because they’re _our_ kid. Why not go all the way?”

“A love letter.” Data worried the hem of Geordi’s shirt with his free hand. “My father created my brother and myself in his image alone. I do not think he had love letters in mind during the process of our creation.”

“Hey, you said it, not me.”

Data rose up and faced Geordi, sitting sideways on the bed. “Our child should resemble you, Geordi. Anyone should be pleased to resemble you.”

“Do you have empirical evidence to support that assertion?”

“I do not need any. It is self-evident.”

Any hint of irony faded from Geordi’s voice, and he raked a hand through his partner’s hair. “Thanks, Data. You’re absolutely beautiful. That’s self-evident.”

So the new android’s body was a love letter written in dark, dense curls and shimmering coppery bioplast, and if they grew up to resent their height (not particularly tall) or the size of their nose (not exactly small), they would have the freedom to edit themselves as they saw fit. The body stood in a polystyrene chamber in the lab, eyes closed, full lips lightly parted, waiting.

☼

The brain and its jumble of components were not exactly portable, but that did not prevent Data and Geordi from toting them all around the house. Sloane spent time arranged on the kitchen table, propped on bookshelves, tucked between pillows, cuddled in laps and crooks of arms, ferried from room to room in a wicker basket, out to the porch, up to Geordi’s office, the bathroom floor, the barn— everywhere.

They were, at this juncture, not a particularly engaging conversationalist; in fact, in the three days since their activation, Sloane had not yet uttered a word. That was okay. If anyone knew how to fill dead air, it was Data. His fingers were a pale blur across the communication terminal’s keypad:

APPROXIMATELY 800 METERS FROM OUR FRONT DOOR THERE IS A POND (DIAMETER: 13.716 METERS; DEEPEST POINT: 3.657 METERS) SURROUNDED BY PACIFIC WILLOW TREES _(SALIX LUCIDA)._ I AM SEATED ON A BLANKET (STRIPED, PERIWINKLE, WOOL) AT THE BANK OF THE POND, AND YOU ARE BY MY SIDE. GEORDI IS SWIMMING. HE IS EXPLAINING THE PREMISE OF A NOVEL HE PLANS TO WRITE. THE CONCEPT IS, IN MY ESTIMATION, FAIRLY ORIGINAL. HE OFTEN REACTS WITH EMBARRASSMENT WHEN I PRAISE HIS LITERARY ENDEAVORS PUBLICLY; HOWEVER, AS WE ARE FAMILY, I AM CERTAIN HE WILL NOT MIND IF I INFORM YOU THAT IN ADDITION TO EXCELLING IN MANY AREAS BOTH PROFESSIONAL AND EXTRACURRICULAR, YOUR FATHER POSSESSES A SINGULAR TALENT FOR THE WRITTEN WORD. I LOVE HIM, AND I BELIEVE YOU WILL AS WELL. THE TEMPERATURE IS 26 DEGREES CELSIUS.

Geordi backstroked in a lazy circle. “I’m not sure how the assassination subplot will tie into the main story, but I want to keep it in because I think it’ll strengthen the—”

“Geordi.”

“Huh?”

Data’s pallid face glowed in the afternoon light. “They replied.”

The engineer kicked up an enormous spray in his hurry to reach the shore. Pond scum whipped around his ankles as he scrambled onto the blanket, wrapped a dripping arm around Data and pressed into him to read the message on the communicator’s screen:

MORE

“H-hey! That’s a start! That is a _start!”_ Geordi leaned into Data’s lap and typed frantically, leaving droplets of water on the keypad.

WHAT DO YOU WANT MORE OF?

They watched and waited. Then—

EVERYTHING

Geordi gave a triumphant guffaw and collapsed across Data’s legs. “They’re really in there! Data, we did it! They’re really there!” He beamed and the willow trees’ dappled shadows played across his glistening face and heaving chest. He laughed again. “And they’re taking after you already.”

_More. Everything._ Data gazed down at Geordi, and his processors purred. Yes, Sloane would love Geordi. He was easy to love.

From between Data’s arms, Geordi watched the screen. Again, Data began to type:

YOU  WILL HAVE EVERYTHING WE ARE ABLE TO GIVE.

☼

Two weeks after their activation, Geordi sat at the coffee table with the brain and tapped out a greeting.

MORNING, BABY. WHAT’S THE STORY?

I WANT.

WANT WHAT?

TOUCH.

HMM, THAT’S A LITTLE MUCH FOR RIGHT NOW. TELL YOU WHAT. LET’S START WITH BASIC LOCOMOTION.

I WILL MOVE MYSELF?

YEP. THAT AN ACCEPTABLE COMPROMISE?

ACCEPTABLE.

The brain was outfitted with a robotic arm and gyroscopic inner ear. Geordi and Data sat on opposite sides of the living room floor with Sloane between them, and watched the arm wave wildly. For long minutes Sloane grasped at the carpet, tipped over, struggled to right themselves, grasped again, before finding purchase and dragging themselves a few inches in Geordi’s direction.

The indicator light on the terminal flashed. Data leaned over to read the message:

“‘Difficult.’”

Geordi chuckled. “No kidding.”

The arm extended and contracted, extended and contracted, and the brain inched across the rug like a snail. Then Sloane pulled themselves over a bundle of their own cables, toppled over, and went absolutely still.

There was a tense, frozen moment before the indicator light flashed again. As he read, the corners of Data’s mouth curled.

“What do they say?”

“‘Carry me.’”

Geordi released his held breath in a burst of laughter, and scooped the snail into his arms.

☼

Sloane asked to hear, and was equipped with an aural receiver.

“Testing,” Geordi murmured. “Hello? Honey, can you hear us?”

I HEAR I HEAR I HEAR I HEAR.

Geordi elbowed Data in the ribs. “And I thought androids don’t get excited.”

Data looked as exasperated as he ever did, which was not very. “Sloane, I am curious to know if you can deduce which one of us is speaking based on the tone of our written communications. Who do you—”

DATA DATA DATA DATA.

Geordi howled. “You didn’t really think there was any chance of them mistaking us! Your dad’s got a particular manner of speaking, doesn’t he?”

PARTICULAR. YEP.

They walked up the hill to visit the bees. Geordi sat Sloane atop one box while Data unpacked the other.

I HEAR THEM.

“Uh huh. Buzzing like anything.”

THEY ARE LOUD.

“I’ll bet! You’re right down there on bee-level.”

“What we perceive as a buzzing sound is in fact wind vibration produced by the bees’ wings, which beat at an incredibly rapid pace. In some species, wind vibration also serves a purpose in pollination. Having landed on a flower, the bumblebee vibrates its thorax, shaking the flower’s anthers and causing pollen to fall on the bee’s body. The next flower the bee visits will receive—”

Geordi rubbed at his face and yawned. Data fell silent.

“Ah— I apologize.”

Geordi blinked and extended a placating hand. “Oh, no, it’s not like that! I’m just tired, is all. You know I always want to he—”

The communicator light blinked.

I HEAR. CONTINUE. MORE.

“See?” Geordi gave a soft smile, and the corners of his eyes wrinkled pleasantly. “They like the sound of your voice as much as I do.”

He squeezed Data’s hand, and it squeezed back. The sun was beginning to set, and the Martian sky was as red as it had been before anybody lived underneath it.

Data withdrew his hand and lifted a frame from the box, coated with industrious insects. “ _Apis mellifera,_ the western honey bee, was among the first insect species domesticated by Humans. Honey bee colonies are comprised of—”

Geordi wrapped his arms around Data, Sloane’s cursor blinked attentively, and they listened.

☼

“I wonder how it’ll be for you,” Geordi mused, tightening the fasteners connecting the visual receptor to the brain, “if it’ll be anything like how it was for me.”

Data stood at the lab’s diagnostic console. “On your cue.”

Geordi waited for the communicator light to flash. “Okay. Go ahead.”

A few swift keystrokes later, Sloane had vision. They made no immediate report.

Data’s lips parted but Geordi held up a hand. “Hold on. Give them a minute.” He leaned over the exam table and watched the communicator, chin resting on a balled fist. Data placed a hand on his back. Seconds ticked by.

Texted crawled across the screen:

PROCESSING.

Geordi chewed on a fingernail. Data traced figure eights between his shoulder blades. Then:

I SEE.

“How is it?”

I UNDERSTAND MANY THINGS NOW.

Data moved to stand at Geordi’s side. “What do you understand?”

SHAPE. DEPTH. LIGHT. SHADOW. COLOR. YELLOW YELLOW. BLUE BLUE.

“Blue—? What do you mean? You should be seeing the full visual spectrum, and then some.” Geordi looked to Data, brow creased with concern.

“I do not— ahh,” Data breathed. “Their social programming prioritizes facial identification and eye contact.” He touched his own temple: “Yellow yellow,” then Geordi’s: “blue blue.”

Geordi sat up, artificial eyes wide.

SHOW ME MYSELF.

Data picked up the visual receptor, its cable trailing across the exam table, and trained it on the brain. In the month since their activation Sloane had accrued a cumbersome variety of attachments, looking more like the upended contents of one of Geordi’s desk drawers than a highly sophisticated cybernetic organism, let alone a child.

I DO NOT LOOK LIKE YOU.

“On the contrary, you appear very much as I do.” Data inclined his head. “On the inside.”

I AM INCOMPLETE.

Geordi stroked a patch of the brain’s casing that, otherwise glossy, had gone dull from too many kisses. “No, not incomplete. In progress.”

☼

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Geordi & Sloane in the living room like this :)](https://youtu.be/FGV9tNy89is?t=57)


	2. The body electric

“Are you certain you are ready? It will be unlike anything you have experienced thus far. You may become overwhelmed.”

YEP. I AM PREPARED.

“Very well. We will conduct the installation this afternoon.”

EXCITEMENT.

It was afternoon. It was a sort of second birthday. A pair of eyes opened. A pair of lips opened wider, then closed.

“Hang on, baby,” Geordi murmured. He was wedged in the chamber next to the body, making final connections deep in the base of the android’s open skull.

Hands twitched, and the mouth opened and closed again.

“Okay.” Geordi closed the cranial panel with a click and carefully teased the mass of springy coils into place, obscuring the seam. “Okay. That’s it.” He stepped halfway down from the chamber, bracing himself against the polystyrene door.

Data stood before the chamber, as constant as the tide. “You may attempt to move now. Be advised, there is a step.”

The mouth opened a third time and stayed open. An utterance issued from it— all stuttered machine consonants, and the arms darted out to either side, forearms pressing into the chamber’s inner walls. Geordi started and his hands reached out to hover at the android’s hip, but did not touch.

Data planted a foot on the step and leaned into the chamber. “I am going to touch your arms.” His fingers wrapped around them above the elbow.

A head crowned in curls turned to stare him in the face, expression blank, unblinking.

“This is what it is like to feel things against your skin. Pressure, texture, and temperature. You may step forward; I will support you.”

One heel raised, toe dragging along the floor, and with monumental effort, the body lurched sideways. An arm shot out to grip Geordi’s shoulder, and he sucked air sharply through his teeth. In the same second Data was positioned under the body, bearing the brunt of its weight.

There was silence, save for the faint trill of birdsong outside the lab’s insulated walls.

“Sloane.” Data spoke very softly. “Your hands can exert one thousand five hundred kilograms of force per square centimeter. You must let go, or you will injure him severely.”

Sloane’s empty face looked at Geordi and they made a sound like a strangled, protracted sigh.

“Hey, you,” he whispered. He laid his hand atop the one digging into his shoulder. “Look at you, with those pretty eyes.” He stroked the tense knuckles, and very slowly, the grip began to loosen. He grit his teeth as the pressure backed off. “Just like stars.”

As Sloane’s hand relaxed, so did the rest of their body. Their knees buckled. Data eased them down, and Geordi caught their hand as it slipped from his shoulder. He positioned himself behind Sloane, their back pressing against his chest, and held their impossibly heavy, lolling head against his own.

When Geordi spoke his tone was haunted, unable to say what he really meant. “Is it— is it happening?”

“I do not know.” Data’s face was a mask of calm. “I do not know. I do not—”

“I—!” Sloane’s eyes snapped into focus as they pronounced the single perfect syllable. Their muscles animated, no longer dead weight in their parents’ arms. “I. I. I am sorry. I am sorry. Father I am sorry. I am—”

“No, no, shhh, no!” Geordi exclaimed, petting their hair, stroking a thumb up and down their cheek. “Oh, thank god. Don’t be sorry. Don’t be. I’m fine. You’re fine. You’re perfect. You’re fine.”

Data shuffled closer until Sloane was sandwiched between them, still twitching and stuttering broken apologies but very much alive. “Welcome to your body,” he murmured into their hair. “Welcome to the world.”

☼

Hours later, Geordi sat at the kitchen table with Data between his knees, faced away, shirtless and cross-legged on the floor. Sloane knelt next to him. They maintained a tight grasp on the leg of Geordi’s chair.

The side of Data’s cranium came away in the engineer’s hand. “Here’s the temporal access panel. You’ve seen him walking around with his head open like this pretty often. It’s the same for you; this is the main spot we’ll use for routine access.” He allowed Sloane a good look at the curved interior of the panel before clicking it back into place.

“Your limbs are segmented at each joint.” He gave Data’s right arm a very sharp, firm twist, and it separated below the shoulder. He held the end out to Sloane, watched their eyes dart over the concentric rings of flesh and circuitry and metal. He turned it over and chuckled: the hand was frozen in the shape of a thumbs-up. “Yours won’t come off just like that. You’ll need to give a mental signal— which we’ll tell you about later— to retract the connective mechanisms inside. So unless you’re fully deactivated, nothing’s coming off of you without your say.”

He threaded the arm back on and smoothed his hands down Data’s shoulders. The android inched forward a touch. “Then the dorsal access panel. We can get to your long-term memory here.”

Sloane’s speech was halting and sprinkled with errant vocalizations, but understandable. “I can touch?”

“Yes,” Data nodded. “Thank you for asking.”

Geordi guided their hand to Data’s back. They pressed between his shoulder blades, fingernails snagging on the bioplast seam around the panel. Their hand slipped down his spine, then paused at his lower back, probing a patch of inconsistently dense skin.

“You have located my deactivation switch.”

They pressed around the edge of the patch. “Explain.”

“Deactivation is similar to the Human experience of sleep. I prefer not to enter this state, because unlike true sleep, I am unable to wake myself from it.”

“You don’t have a switch, Sloane, you can only be deactivated through your brain.”

Data laid a hand on their knee. “I want you to see what it is like. Geordi will actuate the switch presently. There are very few people I would allow to do so, and he is chief among them.”

Sloane made no reply. Geordi gently nudged their hand away and pressed his fingers into the patch. Data nodded slightly. Geordi pulled the switch, and Data became absolutely still, a faint smile still etched across his face.

Geordi drew in a breath. “Like that. It doesn’t hurt or anything, he’s just off. He won’t remember anything that happens while he’s out.” He looked Sloane in the eye. “We won’t ever shut you off unless it’s a hundred percent necessary. And you’ll always know it’s coming.”

He pulled the switch again, and Data shuddered into motion. He had been so deathly still that now, his face seemed vibrantly animated by contrast.

“Hey, Data.”

“Geordi.” His voice was warm. “We will never deactivate you, Sloane, unless it becomes absolutely necessary for your wellness.”

Sloane looked at Geordi, and he smiled. “What he said. So, that’s the Soong-type experience, kiddo. What do you think?”

They examined their own hands. They looked down at their bare chest and legs, touched their skin. “I still do not look like you. My body is different.”

“Well, you were modeled to resemble both of us, in your own way. But we _are_ different people.”

“Why?”

Geordi bumped a knee against Data’s arm. “You wanna field this one, pal?”

“We are different because we are individuals. Individuality is part of Human nature. Geordi is Human, and you and I were created in Humanity’s image.” Data pulled a sweater over his head, mussing his hair. “That said, you can be any kind of individual you wish to be. We would like you to become accustomed to inhabiting a body, first, but in future, you will be free to alter your appearance as you see fit.”

Geordi nodded. “Any other questions?”

“Yes.” They tugged on Data’s sleeve. “Why do you cover yourself?”

“Because it is deeply ingrained in Human culture to do so, and I strive to emulate Humanity.” He tilted his head. “And being clothed makes socialization substantially easier.”

Very slowly and subtly, a crease formed between Sloane’s eyebrows. “I. Do not see the point. I will not participate.”

Geordi leaned back in his chair and laughed. “That’s your prerogative, honey. At home anyway.” He stroked Data’s hair, and his partner gazed mildly up at him. “Guess it runs in the family.”

☼


	3. The offspring

_NOVEMBER_

Sloane raced down the stairs and tripped spectacularly on the second to last step. They slammed into the linen closet door, which split with a resonating crack.

In the kitchen Geordi jumped, swore, and dropped a plate on his foot. It shattered into a constellation of white and yellow shards against a backdrop of deep blue tile.

Sloane was already on their feet. “Good morning. The closet door is broken.”

“You don’t say,” he sighed, and crouched to pick up the pieces.

A black and white shape tried to sneak past Sloane’s legs but the android was too fast. They scooped Antideuterium, protesting  lamely, into their arms, and buried their face in her plush belly. “ I hit it very hard with my body. Again.”

Geordi had to laugh. “Yeah, honey, I figured. Could you keep your re-entry velocity _under_ the speed of sound next time?”

“I was traveling at well below—”

“Hey, don’t give me that! I know you know what I mean.”

Sloane shifted the cat onto their shoulder and smiled a small smile, the expression so familiar and so entirely foreign. “Dad?”

“Living room.”

Data was painting by the window as Sloane padded in.

“The closet door is broken.”

“Yes, I surmised as much.” The painting was abstract, color flowing from edge to edge like water. “Did you perform an internal damage assessment?”

“Later,” Sloane hummed. “Dad. Why have they not come to see me?”

Data looked over his shoulder. Sloane stood before the fireplace, looking at the holophotos displayed on the mantle. They traced circles around the little faces: Worf with a very young Alexander on his shoulder, dressed for hoverball; Ariana and Kafiya and Nadifa grinning from behind matching sunglasses at Machu Picchu; Beverly about to push newly promoted Admiral Picard’s face into a cake.

“You were activated a mere three months ago, and they lead busy lives. But they are your family. You will meet them all in time.”

“Lots of uncles. Lots of aunts,” Sloane whispered, letting Anti jump to the floor. They turned to fix Data with dark, skeptical eyes. “They will love me?”

“Yes. That is what family does.”

“Hm.” They closed one eye and pinched the admiral’s head between thumb and forefinger. “I am going outside.”

Geordi leaned into view from the kitchen doorway. “Remember the rule?”

“No property damage. Yep.” And they bounded out the front door.

Data felt the progression of his partner’s footfalls across the floor and put down his brush.

“It’s well and truly broken this time. The shelves inside, too.” Geordi sat heavily on the couch. “Should we be worried about this?”

“I do not believe so. Their motor skills should become more refined over time. Should.” Data perched on the coffee table, his knees fitting between the engineer’s. “I plan to tell them about Lal tonight.”

Geordi’s dismayed expression intensified. “Already?”

“My efforts to ascertain the most appropriate time to tell a child information such as this have been unsuccessful. Advice based on Human developmental stages does not seem applicable. I do not wish to keep secrets, therefore I would rather tell them sooner than later.”

“I don’t want to keep secrets either. It’s just— developmentally they’re coming along, daily life is evening out— it feels like we finally got into a rhythm. So to spring that trauma on them _now_ _?_ Not only that, but the possibility that the same thing could happen to them?” Geordi gripped his hair in sudden horror and sank deeper into the cushions. “Oh god, we’re gonna have to tell them about Lore some day. How the hell do we explain that?”

Data shifted and the coffee table creaked. “I do not know.”

“Okay.” Geordi covered his face with his hands. “Alright. What are you planning to say?”

“I will tell them that many years ago, before we were a family, I created an offspring who became my daughter, whose neural net was unstable, and who suffered cascade failure after only a few days of life.”

“That’s all?”

“That is all. Perhaps I will add— in those few days she learned much, and brought many people great happiness.”

Geordi’s hands slipped from his face and he stared at the ceiling. “It still hurts. She wasn’t even mine, and it still hurts.”

“She was yours, Geordi.” Data inched forward so their legs pressed more firmly together. “Deanna, yourself, Wesley as well. She was all of ours.”

Geordi sat up slowly, with effort, as though weighed down by an ocean of sand. Their faces were very close now. “Do you want me to be there when you tell them?”

“I think it may be best to do it alone. I do not want to give our conversation the tenor of _an event.”_

“Gotcha. You can tag me in whenever you need me.” Geordi smiled feebly and stroked Data’s cheek. “You’ve got paint on your chin.”

Data took his harried face in his hands and kissed him. Then he pulled away and informed him: “So do you.”

☼

Between the two androids there was a clear and immediate bond. Geordi did not always ask what Data and Sloane talked about on those nights they stayed up long after his organic body demanded rest. He was happy to wake up to whatever mess they’d made, especially when it involved some combination of breakfast foods. He liked to watch them move around each other, their motion not synchronized but coordinated, adored his child’s utter disregard for appearing Human as they whipped pancake batter into frothy over-mixed oblivion, and the increasing frequency with which Data, perhaps encouraged by Sloane’s example, moved a little too quickly, lifted something too easily, neglected to blink. He watched them sit together at the computer terminal in the lab, Sloane curled in Data’s lap, twin cables trailing from their heads and twining along the floor, Data rhythmically stoking their hair. No sound but the murmuring hum of the machinery all around them and the soft noises Sloane made in their simulated sleep. Seeing them joined to each other in a way he never could be, Geordi never felt more apart from them, and never felt more deeply in love.

But the organic Human and the inorganic one connected in other ways. For one, Sloane thought Geordi was the funniest person in the galaxy— or their household, at the very least. They expressed their amusement by making an appropriately joyful facial expression— rather more convincing than Data ever could manage— and shaking in a silent approximation of laughter. The duration and intensity of this performance directly corresponded with how well Geordi had done. He took it as a challenge.

“Hey, kiddo,” Geordi called from inside the old shuttlecraft parked outside the barn. “You know I ate a clock yesterday?”

Sloane, who had been soaking in the noonday sun on the craft’s roof, hung their head down over the edge.

“You know, it was really time-consuming.”

They clapped a hand over their mouth.

Geordi extricated himself from under the shuttle’s control panel and pointed a microdriver at their face. “Especially when I went back for seconds.”

Sloane’s shoulders shook riotously and they banged on the roof, the thunderous reverberation echoing over the hill and rousing birds from the trees.

“Hear that, Data?” Geordi shouted over the din. “That’s a level-three laugh right there. No mistaking it.”

Data looked up from the engine parts spread across the lawn. “It most certainly is.” And he smiled, for once perfectly content in being left out of the loop.

As the sun set the androids withdrew to the lab to perform their weekly diagnostics. When darkness finally drove Geordi inside, he found Data alone in the living room next to his painting, now finished. He saw realized that it was not truly abstract but an impressionist depiction of running water, with a face, muddled and indistinct, submerged within.

“What are you doing in the dark like that?”

The pale figure came to life. “Geordi. I was thinking.”

He sat beside him in the window seat. “What were you thinking about?”

“I told them about Lal, in almost the exact words I told you I would.”

The subtle evasion was not lost on Geordi, but he didn’t press it. “And?”

Data frowned. “It was difficult to gauge their response. They did not ask any questions, when I expected they would have many.”

“Huh.” Geordi slipped an arm under Data’s and their fingers idly intertwined. The weak moonlight stretched their shadows long and thin across the room and up the far wall. “Did they seem upset?”

“I fear my understanding of their emotional experience is even less complete than that of my own.”

“Don’t be like that. You’ve come a long way.”

“I suppose. But that is neither here nor there. They know, and there is nothing to do but wait and see what they do with the knowledge.” Data stared again into the darkness. Vacant, neutral, blank.

Geordi stood and led him away from the window, wrapped his arms around a body uncharacteristically stiff. “Hey,” he whispered, pressing a ghostly palm to his lips. “I don’t know what’s going on, but I know _something_ is. You can tell me now, or you can tell me later. Either way is fine.”

Data drew in a breath, and a word half-formed on his lips— his face froze there in a subtly tortured formation. Finally, he made a tiny, indistinct sound and announced: “It is time for bed.”

Later, then. Geordi enveloped him in a fierce hug: very, very tight. “Okay. Let’s go.”

☼


	4. Into oblivion

Three days passed. On the fourth day, it rained.

Sloane sat in the window seat with knees curled to their chest, tracing the tracks of water streaming down the pane.

“It could happen to me,” they asked as two droplets met and sped downward, “what happened to Lal?”

Their parents looked at each other.

Geordi drummed out a rhythm on the arm of the couch. “We would do everything we could to stop it.”

“It could happen.”

Data glanced apologetically between his partner and child, spoke softly: “It… is possible, yes. Though at this stage in your development, it is not likely.”

Nose buried in the crook of their elbow, Sloane surveyed the pair. Geordi stared at the rug, brooding. After a moment, Data’s gaze returned hesitantly to his book.

“I see,” Sloane murmured.

In the late evening, Sloane crept into Geordi’s office so soundlessly that he did not react to their presence until their shadow fell across his desk. He swiveled away from his work and Sloane knelt at his feet, resting their chin on his knee.

“Father.”

“Yeah?”

“What are you doing?”

“Planning a lecture on warp factor conversion.”

“I do not care about that.”

He tangled his fingers in their hair. “That’s okay. My students don’t either. But they have to learn it, and you don’t.”

“Father.”

“Yes, kiddo.”

“When will you die?”

“Not for a long time.”

“Specify.”

Geordi gave an exasperated chuckle. “You know the answer. You could calculate my life expectancy pretty accurately if you wanted to.”

“No. You could stay with us forever, but you have chosen not to.”

“Sloane, I—” He sighed, traced their eyebrow with his thumb. “I haven’t chosen not to, I haven’t chosen _at all_. It’s still on the table. And anyway, it’s not about whether I want to stay with you. Of course I do. It’s— it’s more complicated than that.”

Their nose wrinkled, an extreme display of android petulance. “It is not complicated. If you choose to die, you will leave us. If you choose not to, you stay.” They tossed their curls and pressed their forehead into his knee, face hidden. “Choose now. Say you will stay.”

“Oh, baby.” He leaned forward to envelop their head in his arms. “That’s about the only thing I can’t promise. I’m so sorry.”

Their voice came muffled from inside the dome of his body. “I do not understand.”

He nuzzled their hair. “I’m not sure I do, either. I can only apologize. For being fallible. For being Human.”

Sloane shook themselves free of him and crossed their arms, dark eyes trained on the ceiling. “It is not wrong to be Human.” Their tone— philosophical? reluctant?— was unreadable. They shuffled closer and hugged his leg. “If you will not stay, then I will keep you.”

“Like— how your dad kept Lal?”

“Yep.”

“And what did you tell them?” Data asked. It was past midnight and they were in bed, a sanctified time and place, safe for fraught discussions such as this one.

“I told them they could. What else could I say?”

“No?”

“Come on.” In the darkness which did not impede either of their visions, face half-buried in a pillow, Geordi looked at Data askance. “Not possible. And— if I’m gone, I won’t be using my memories, anyway.”

“That does not mean you have to share them.”

“No, but—” he chewed his lip thoughtfully, searching for the words. “I want to. I got my mother’s personal logs, her letters, and I’m so grateful to have them. I can leave our kid a lot more than that.”

Data watched his face.

Geordi let out a puff of air. “You know… seeing how well they’re coming along is… well, it’s encouraging. I’ve been leaning _yes_ lately, is what I’ll say.”

Data nudged closer. “Oh?”

“Yeah. But don’t sound so hopeful.”

“The only thing I hope for is your contentment. No matter your eventual choice, you are already with me, in every line of my programming, and the furthest reaches of my neural net.”

“Hyperbolic.”

“I was aiming for poetic. Allow me to speak plainly: I love you, Geordi.”

“I love you too.” His voice was thick. “So much.” And he traveled the last few inches between them, and they kissed.

Geordi lay awake all night, so Data did too. He never slept on nights Geordi did not. Down the hall, in the room which used to be the guest room, Sloane dreamed they were themselves and somebody else. They stood waist-deep in a stream and, scooping a handful of smooth stones from its depths, swallowed them one by one: _f_ _lirting,_ _l_ _aughter,_ _pain_ _ting. Family,_ _f_ _emale. Human._

☼


	5. The lives of others

There was motion behind the frosted glass window of Data’s office door. The door opened, letting in a snippet of commotion and bustle from the hallway, which petered back into nonexistence as Geordi closed it behind him.

“Got a minute, professor?”

“For you, always. You survived your morning classes?”

“On caffeine and fumes. How are you?”

“I am well.” Data’s brow furrowed earnestly. “Geordi— several days ago, you astutely observed that ‘something’ was ‘going on.’ I am prepared to share that something with you now. If you do not have pressing business to attend to—”

“No, no.” Geordi’s look of mild surprise was undercut by a yawn, which he fought to suppress. “I just came in to bug you. Go ahead.”

“When I told Sloane about Lal, they requested I copy Lal’s memories to them.”

“Oh! They—? And you—?”

“I executed their request. And I removed Lal’s memories from myself.”

The sound of the other shoe dropping knocked all coherent thought from Geordi’s head. All he could manage was: “Oh.”

Data continued. “I have of course retained my own memories of her, but it seemed fitting that Sloane posses Lal’s firsthand experiences. That they be together, as siblings.” His lips stretched into a thin, grim line. “I can not justify the decision in any demonstrable way. I hope it was the right one.”

“Wow. Yeah, Data, that’s a big deal,” Geordi breathed. He lowered himself into the chair normally reserved for anxious undergrads taking advantage of Data’s office hours. “Listen, I’m not sure I’ve ever told you. When I was maybe… twelve years old, and Ariana was about seven, our mom’s ship was docked at the old DS Six, which was pretty packed at the time. We were more or less left to our own devices, so we spent a lot of time just wandering, and one day we found a spot up on a catwalk that overlooked a little alcove where people tended to hang out. We sat there for hours watching folks come and go, and saw all kinds of crazy stuff: lovers meeting up, parents pulling their kids aside to tell them off, at least a couple of drug deals. There was one person who just needed someplace to cry. It was wild, like— like a sampling of the Human condition, unfolding for our benefit. The humanoid condition, that is.”

Geordi paused thoughtfully, and the android’s eyes flickered over his face.

“When we came back home and Mom asked what we’d done all day, we looked at each other, and it was like we decided, without discussing it at all beforehand, that it was gonna be a secret we kept. I think I made up some lie about watching ships come in. Didn’t matter at all, really— it wasn’t the secret that was important, it was the formation of this shared space between us. We realized that fundamentally, we could trust each other— even when we were at each other’s throats— and we could turn to each other and be understood. That’s been so important to me through my life, having that space with her. Lal can’t be there for Sloane like Ari is for me. But she can be _with_ them, in some small way.”

Data looked faintly pained. “Yes, that was my hope, as well. I was concerned you would see my actions as a betrayal of her memory.”

“No. I think you did a good thing.”

“I am glad.” Data said softly. Then, his expression shifted. “Geordi, you witnessed drug trafficking in Federation space, and told no one?”

From shades of gray to black and white in a millisecond. Geordi rolled his eyes. “Data, that’s not the point. And we were kids—”

“The children of high-ranking Starfleet officers—”

“Data.”

He froze mid-sentence. “I am sorry. I do not mean to detract from the poignancy of your story by litigating actions you took decades ago.”

“You’re okay, buddy.”

Data seemed to sit up a little straighter, the image of self-possession. “Thank you for your input; I am greatly relieved to have divulged this information to you. If you will excuse me, I have an appointment with a student who is dissatisfied with the score she received on her mid-term assessment.”

Geordi bit back a smile. “Woof! Glad I’m not in her shoes. You can be a pretty hard grader, pal.” He stood and tugged at his jacket.

“I disagree. My grading is consistent with the expectations outlined in my syllabi.”

Geordi leaned across the desk and planted a kiss on Data’s forehead. “Of course it is, mister law and order.”

“I fail to see how that expression is applicable to—”

“Bye, Data, see you in a bit. Oh—” He hesitated in the door frame and the cacophony of the hallway flooded back into the room. “If you have a chance to proofread the course description I sent you—”

“Of course. Now, vacate my office.”

Geordi winked at the mousy Bajoran girl waiting patiently outside, and was gone.

☼


	6. For both of us

_Be good. Love you. See you soon._

_Love you. Be good._

_See you soon._

Sloane was, for the first time, completely alone. When the world had been quiet and dark (it had not seemed quiet or dark at the time, they reflected, but they found they lacked the words to describe it any more accurately), even then they had not been alone. Togetherness was embedded into the very substance of their programming— _you are loved—_ so deeply that at first it was difficult to conceive of any other state of being. Belovedness necessitates the presence of an other. Now there was no one, at least within their immediate proximity, the subjective boundaries that defined _home._

They were vaguely aware of the presence of property lines— three hundred meters eastward beyond the road, two hundred meters into the woods south of the house— but found these unuseful in defining what _home_ was. They developed a mental framework: The house was the epicenter of home, and homeness radiated from it. The density of homeness decreased the further one traveled from the house. There were lesser, secondary sources of homeness, like the barn, the pond, other areas of the property where much time was spent. Their parents were likewise sources of homeness, and were conveniently portable. And they themselves? Home’s location did not change when they stepped beyond its boundary, so they must not be part of home but an inhabitant of it. An organism endemic to it. Like the cats.

At present, there was one curled on Sloane’s abdomen, and one lying across their neck. They had assumed a reclining posture on the living room floor as their parents made preparations to walk out the door, thinking it an appropriate display of their displeasure. _Do not worry. We will be home soon. Love you._ Now that they were gone and Sloane had no audience, it was time to get up.

Deuterium and Antideuterium were dislodged without warning or ceremony, and Sloane stood once more at the mantle. Their fingers played over the hologram of the woman in yellow, making the little figure flicker in and out of existence— then flicker out entirely.

“Oh, Aunt Tasha,” they remarked aloud. “Your battery has run out.” And they carried the hologram to the window, where the light was strongest.

If they stood on the window seat, they could stretch their arms up and just graze the ceiling. It was cobwebby up there. They looked out onto the lawn and saw the vastness of the day stretched out before them. The behavioral parameters they had been given were very broad: _We trust you. Be good._ Highly subjective. Open to interpretation. Delicious.

Foregoing shoes they walked out of the house, down the front walk to the road, stepped effortlessly to the top of a fence post, and stood absolutely still balanced atop it for 48 minutes, watching the clouds creep across the sky, and reveling in the emptiness of passing time.

Down the road, they heard the rattle of a bike chain. They turned to see a girl pedal around the treeline and into view. Sloane watched the girl watch them as the distance between them closed.

When she was a stone’s throw away, she dismounted the bicycle and walked alongside it. “Hey!”

“Hey!” Sloane called back in the girl’s own voice.

“Are you a kid or an adult?”

“Are you a kid or an adult?”

The girl giggled. “That’s neat. But are you a kid?”

“I am an android.”

The girl parked her bike against the fence at Sloane’s feet. “Oh! There’s one of those at my mom’s school. Is it you?”

“I do not go to school. My parents do.”

“Is it your mom, then?”

“I do not have a mom. My dad is an android. My father sometimes says he is a cyborg.”

“My dad’s Klingon.” She rubbed the ridges of her forehead. “So that’s why I have these.”

“I can touch?”

“Sure.”

Sloane crouched and ran a finger, very carefully, from the crown of the girl’s head to her nose: cartilaginous.

She giggled again. “That feels funny.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s okay. You’re kinda sparkly. Is that from the android side or the cyborg side?”

Sloane considered this. “The android side.”

“Neat,” the girl breathed. She kicked at the dirt, and there was a moment of silence. “But,” the girl began again, “are you a grown-up or a kid?”

“I do not know.” Sloane’s brow furrowed, perturbed. “Why do you keep asking?”

“Because I’m eleven, and mostly my friends are the same age as me. So I want to know if you can be my friend.”

“I am ninety-seven.”

“Years?” The girl’s eyes bugged in incredulity.

“Days.”

“Ohh!” She exclaimed, as if all was now clear. “That’s really young. Yeah, you’re a kid.”

Sloane learned new things every day.

They jumped down from the fence post and came nose-to-nose with the girl, who stumbled back a step. Sloane was taller, but they were the same color, rich coppery brown like the surface of Mars. “Would you like to see me do something I am not supposed to do?”

“Definitely.”

They left the bike by the road and ran beyond home’s furthest perimeter and into the woods.

Sloane led the way, and the girl followed close behind. They wove through the underbrush and the android’s brain supplied them with a wealth of information: _Western white pine (Pinus monticola)_ _Douglas fir (_ _Pseudotsuga menziesii_ _) Ponderosa pine (Pinus ponderosa)._ Very dull stuff. Not worth sharing with a new friend.

They came upon a boulder— _mineral composition:_ _pyroxene, olivine, plagioclase feldspar;_ awfully, awfully dull— and the pair knelt at its base.

“What are you—” the girl was wide-eyed and a little breathless. “What are you gonna do?”

Sloane extended their left index finger and applied it  to the boulder.  Their tone was hushed. “Property damage.”

The finger dragged along the  rock’s surface, and bioplast skin tore and buckled and peeled back exposing the shining tip of the duranium digit within. The boulder shrieked, metal on stone, and the girl clapped her hands over her ears. Sloane dragged and dragged, boring deeply into the rock, until they had formed a perfect line, 30 centimeters from end to end.

Cautiously , the girl lowered her hands. “ Neat. So  so  neat.  Do it again. Like this.” She traced two more lines, perpendicular and diagonal to the first. She wrapped her arms around her  ears and Sloane complied.

When they were done they cocked their head. “The letter K?  For  Klingon?”

The girl laughed. “No, for Kahla. That’s my name.” She grabbed Sloane’s hand and pressed it to the boulder again. “Do yours.”

The curves of the letter S were trickier to reproduce, but they managed.

Kahla smiled.  “S for,  um… cyborg?”

“For Sloane.”

Kahla moved Sloane’s hand back to the rock. “Now put a plus here, in between. Yeah, there. Now people will know we were here together. Perfect.”

She scooted backward on the forest floor and tugged on Sloane’s tank top until they were shoulder to shoulder, and they surveyed their work.

“Yep,” Sloane agreed. “Perfect.”

Kahla’s skin was very soft, softer than Sloane had ever felt, organic or synthetic. When she’d grabbed at them it had felt— different. Both Sloane’s parents had larger hands than they did, and they fit together in a certain way. Kahla’s was slightly smaller than Sloane’s, and moved with a jerky, uncalculated roughness that they were unused to. But not ungentle, either.

Reminding themselves to be very careful, like when handling the cats, Sloane hooked a hand under Kahla’s elbow and gave a little tug, unwinding the arm from across her lap. Kahla’s mouth made an “O” but she said nothing. Their fingers laced together. Except for Sloane’s torn fingertip, their hands looked very much the same.

Kahla inspected the tear. “It doesn’t hurt?”

“No. But my parents will ask what happened, and I will have to tell them I broke the rule.”

“You could lie?”

Sloane’s nose wrinkled. “I do not lie. My brain says no.”

“But you break the rules anyway?”

“It is exciting.”

The half-Klingon laughed and bared sharp little teeth. “That’s why I do it too! Only I lie sometimes. Or say my sister did it, even though they usually don’t believe me. Do you have a sister to blame?”

“I—” For the second time, Sloane paused to consider. Kahla asked very challenging questions. “They would not believe me if I blamed my sister, because she is dead.”

Sloane felt Kahla’s hand tense in theirs. “Oh. That’s sad.”

“It makes my dad sad but he does not say when he is sad. I do not feel sad because he put her memories in my brain.”

“O— oh.”

“Yep.” Sloane nodded. “But I do not like that my father could die, or I could suffer neural system failure like my sister. It is,” they pursed their lips, “not acceptable.”

“Well...” Kahla shuffled her feet on the ground, the beds of her sandals filling with dirt and pebbles. “My dad says that Klingons used to want to die. Or, not really want to, but it was a good thing, because if a warrior fought really well and got killed, they would die with honor and go to Sto'Vo'Kor. Um. But now, if you live your life with honor, and you do your best and do the things you want to do, you’ll have a good, honorable death. So… I think it could be, um, acceptable to die like that. Even if it’s still sad.”

“Honor: respect, notability, worthiness, decency.” Sloane made a thoughtful noise. “Your dad is a warrior?”

“No, he makes fancy food.”

Sloane’s face screwed up, and Kahla grimaced in alarm.

“Are you okay?”

“I am okay. I will think about your words. When I reach a conclusion I will tell you if you are correct.”

The sound Kahla made was part relief, part amusement, all  good-natured delight.

“You’re funny.”

And suddenly Sloane remembered. They remembered being in a room with lots of people, though that was not possible, because they had only ever met three people and Kahla was the third. They were in a room with lots of people all smaller than them and they were laughing, and at first it was nice, and then it was not nice at all. In a way that seemed to boil and churn on a purely cognitive level, as if behind a partition but not diminished or dulled in its unpleasantness, Sloane hurt. They felt _afraid,_ and they knew that is what it _meant_ to feel. They wanted their dad. They wanted Troi. And they felt the pull of home on their body like the sun’s gravity on an errant planet, a pressing need to return, to be enveloped by it again, back where it was safe. Perhaps that was what homeness was: _safety._ They learned its definition by experiencing its opposite.

Sloane stood up far too quickly and Kahla tumbled over.  Without a conscious decision to do so, they marched in the direction of the house.

“Hey!” The girl called. “Hey, wait, you’re leaving? Where are you going?”

The android stopped and looked back at Kahla, crouching on grubby hands and knees, concern written in the undulations of her forehead.

“I am going home.”

“Already?”

“Yep.” Sloane stomped their foot ineffectually. “Already.”

“Oh. Okay.” There among the brush and brambles, Kahla looked very small. Her expression lightened. “Well in that case, I’ll walk back with you, and you can show me your house. If you want. If that’s alright with you.” When she did not immediately receive a response, she added very softly: “You don’t have to.”

Sloane glared into Kahla’s eyes, shadowed by her strong brow but still shining, and saw that they were brown: a deep, bright brown, very much like Sloane’s own. The churning in their brain began to slow. The fear did not disappear but diminished to a gentle lapping. Manageable. They watched Kahla watching them, and became aware of a creeping sense of homeness, weak and tertiary but unmistakable, radiating from her.

They blinked very hard and stomped their foot again. “Yes, okay. Okay. That is alright with me. But come quickly— you are very slow.”

Beaming, Kahla scrambled to her feet. She slipped her hand into Sloane’s and they gripped back hard— not too hard— and together, they winded their way back through the trees.

☼


	7. Observational research

_FEBRUARY_

The android and the engineer spent, on average, 7.8 hours per week arguing. It was one of their favorite pastimes, and one of their child’s favorite phenomena to observe. Their arguing spanned a range of topics and tenors: philosophical, technical, practical, theoretical, romantic; and could resolve in any manner of ways: an agreement, an agreement to disagree, a joke, a rain check, a stalemate, a protracted exchange of facial expressions followed by silence (it had only happened once, but it was fascinating to witness), an embrace.

Sloane liked the technical debates best, not because they found the subject matter engaging (they never did), but because they tended to last the longest and become most heated, and thus were preferable for data collection. Tonight’s was a category D argument (domestic), subcategory F (familial), and if Sloane's projections were correct, was likely to build to a class S resolution. They sat halfway up the stairs and watched the scene in the living room unfold.

“I don’t believe it. What are the odds that they’d pick the _exact_ same time?”

Data stood on a chair wiping cobwebs from where the wall met the ceiling. “It is highly improbable. Does your father have no other availability?”

“It doesn’t matter if he does. For fifteen years of Mondays he’s had lunch with Nadifa, and now on Friday afternoons he gets Sloane on subspace. He’s old and set in his ways. Your mother, on the other hand, could be more flexible. Just because she _thinks_ she’s old—” Geordi stopped himself, and they both glanced at Sloane, who gazed placidly back at them.

“So much for not keeping secrets,” Geordi muttered. “Anyway, Juliana will have to pick a different time. Or agree to share. Would you lift this?”

Data stepped down and tipped the couch on its end, pillows tumbling to the floor, so Geordi could sweep beneath it. “I do not think Dr. Tainer would be amenable to the idea. She has already expressed displeasure that we have taken Sloane to see your father, but not her.”

“Somalia is a little bit more local to us than Atrea IV.”

“Substantially, in fact.”

“Don’t agree with me, I was being snide. And you can put it down now, thanks.”

Data made a small enlightened noise and turned to the figure crouched on the staircase. “Sloane, what is your opinion?”

It was not unprecedented for them to ask for their input, but in this instance, it was a mistake. Sloane had an agenda. “Neither should be asked to compromise.”

“So you wanna try calling them at the same time?”

They formed their answer carefully. “No. That would be unfair, and therefore in violation of my ethical programming.”

Data’s eyebrows raised. Geordi took the bait.

He collapsed on the couch, groped around for a throw pillow and found none. “You’re killing me. You’re both killing me.”

“Regrettable.” Data gave his child a scrutinizing look. “Does that not also violate your ethical programming?”

They squished their face between the banisters and gave him absolutely nothing.

He put down the dust cloth and picked up the abandoned broom. “I will speak to my mother. This time, I will be insistent.”

“No, don’t.” Geordi sighed. “Dad’s retired, he could be more accommodating— I just didn’t want to have the conversation. You’re too nice, Data.”

“I would rather practice kindness in excess than risk the opposite, especially in my treatment of you.”

Geordi sat up with a grin. “See, there you go again. You big sap.”

Now, this was regrettable: the attempt at prolonging the argument had backfired completely. Sloane closed their eyes and just listened.

“Say, let me finish up here. You could get some fiddling in before we have to pack, if you wanted.”

“That would be very pleasant. However, our bags are already packed.”

“No kidding? You’re incredible, you know that?”

“You are my best friend, Geordi.”

The room went quiet, and that was how it ended: one or the other of them pulled his beloved into a kiss, and Sloane turned away and crept up the stairs to dream about everyone they would meet tomorrow— lots of uncles. Lots of aunts. Nothing more of interest would happen tonight. It was a class S resolution, after all: sweet.

☼


	8. Anchorage

“How water-resistant is Sloane?”

Geordi stopped with a glass of wine halfway to his lips. He sat at the bar in the Troi-Riker’s kitchen, a sprawling, open-concept affair, gleamingly clean. If it looked unused, it was because for 11 months of the Terran year, it was. “Water-tight. Why?”

Deanna laughed, disturbing the cloud of steam rising from her hot chocolate. “Don’t make that face. My mother wants to take the children to the beach this afternoon.”

As she spoke the front door burst open with a gust of frigid air, and Riker lumbered in with a bundle of firewood under one arm and a blond child, red-faced from the cold, under the other. He stamped snow off his boots and the child bounced and giggled.

Geordi raised a skeptical eyebrow at the half-frozen man. “Does Alaska have swimmable beaches?”

“Everywhere’s got beaches now, indoor or terraformed. Myself? I’d rather travel to warmer climes.” Riker deposited the child next to Geordi and the rest of his burden near the great black wood stove that dominated the center of the sunken living room. “More special that way.”

From her seat at the bar, Kestra extended snow suit-clad arms and leaned perilously in Geordi’s direction. He scooped the toddler into his lap. “You chop that up yourself, Will?”

“Absolutely not,” Deanna interjected. “We have it brought in from town, and he likes to keep it in the shed for— what do you call it, dear? Aesthetic reasons.”

Peeling off his gloves, Riker moved behind the counter and kissed her cheek. “Shh, don’t spoil the illusion.” She grinned and swiped at his beard, coated with swiftly melting snowflakes. He poured himself a glass of wine. “I lost the others along the way, Geordi. Reckon they’ve succumbed to the snow?”

“They’ll tunnel out. When did you say the rest of us are showing up?”

“Worf and Alex’ll be here Friday. The admiral—”

“Mm!” Deanna held up a finger, mid-sip. She put down her mug. “I nearly forgot. I spoke to Jean Luc this morning, he’s mired in negotiations with the Thubàn and expects not to be out again until the middle of the month.”

“Shame,” Riker swirled his glass. “He’ll just miss Lwaxana.”

Deanna rolled her eyes. “I’m sure Mother will be more than happy to extend her stay.”

The door opened again and Sloane entered with Data in tow, the latter sporting a long wool coat, the former, nothing but a sleeveless jumpsuit.

“—ask you not to stress your thermoregulatory system in this way, you could cause yourself serious damage.”

Sloane hopped in place in the entryway as steam belched from their skin, their clothes drying in an instant. “Okay. I am going upstairs.” They raced up the steps leaving a faint trail of vapor behind them.

Data did not look angry. He never did. But the eye contact he made with the adults in the room spoke volumes.

“Is Thad still out there?”

“He is following a rabbit trail.” Data hung up his coat. “Captain, you look more like Shackleton of the _Endurance_ than Riker of the _Enterprise_.”

“The who now?” Riker looked bemusedly at Geordi, de facto Data Translator. He shrugged.

“Sir Ernest Shackleton, leader of the Imperial Trans-Antarctic expedition of 1914-1917, in which his ship, the _Endurance,_ sank, and his crew of twenty-eight survived an incredible three years on the ice before rescue. I was making an attempt at humor.”

“Oh.” Riker looked down at his heavy parka, still crusted with frost. “Oh, right. Okay, Data, yeah, that was clever.”

Data’s lips curled in small, triumphant smile, and he took Kestra’s vacated seat.

Geordi dandled the baby in his lap. “Speaking of the _Enterprise,_ how’s she doing?”

“She? Oh, Commander Thritza? Exceptionally well, despite being a new first officer in a tight-knit crew, and a Cardassian to boot. She’s ruthless, dedicated, works four times harder than she needs to.” He looked thoughtful. “I understand why, though— she sees a better way for her people. We’re just lucky the way she sees runs through the Federation. And that she’s willing to put up with _me.”_

Geordi cleared his throat. “I’m— genuinely glad to hear that, Will. But I actually meant the ship.”

Riker’s eyebrows ascended to the ceiling. “Ah! Shoulda known. Only room for one woman in your heart, Geordi.”

Deanna leaned her head out of the pantry. “Two, I hope!”

“She’s running as smooth as ever. Barclay takes great care care of her.”

“What do mean, Reg specifically?”

“He didn’t tell you? He tried to tender his resignation six months ago, so I promoted him to chief engineer.”

“Son of a gun!” Geordi bounced Kesta extra high for emphasis. “The man doesn’t call, he doesn’t write...” He shook his head at Data, who _tsk_ -ed solemnly.

Deanna emerged with a tin of cookies which she handed to her partner, who began arranging them on a plate. She leaned on the counter and stacked her chin on her fists. “Will’s the only one left aboard, you know, of the original senior staff. The rest of us have scattered to the wind.”

“Indeed, yourself included, Deanna. We were concerned that the fate which befell the admiral might befall you, as well. I am pleased the wind blew you back here.”

“Thank you, Data. It very nearly didn’t.” Her lips parted as if she meant to continue, then closed again. Her bright Betazoid eyes were unfocused.

Geordi felt it— a shift in the air. He became aware of Deanna’s presence in his mind, or rather, the absence of it. He cut his eyes to Riker, who gave the faintest of nods. He felt it too.

“This year has been— a unique challenge,” Deanna concluded. “Data, can I offer you a cup of tea?”

His focus was shifting rapidly between Riker and Geordi’s faces. “Please.”

She turned to the stove top, and Riker made a gesture that was half placating and half _zip it._ Geordi wondered how aware the captain’s _imzadi_ was of his surreptitious communications. He’d probably never find out.

Data placed a hand on Geordi’s, who yanked free of it with a yelp.

“My god, Data, that’s unbearable! How are you still that cold?”

“You could say I have been chilled to the cortenide bone,” he remarked blandly, accepting a steaming mug from Deanna.

Geordi hugged Kestra close, a living hot water bottle. “Yeah, hang onto that awhile before you touch mortal flesh again.”

“What a fortuitous circumstance! I know just the thing to warm you up.”

All eyes were drawn in the direction of the voice, including Thad’s. At some point he had returned, likely slinking in through a back door, and was curled in a corner of the couch near the fire. His somber features lit from within when his grandmother appeared.

Lwaxana Troi’s physical presence had diminished somewhat with age, but her stage presence had not. Her satin skirts trailed a third of the way up the stairs behind her.

“To the beach!”

☼


	9. Just to reach you

The beach, it turned out, was more than swimmable: it was indistinguishable from the real thing. The frost-encrusted facility resembled a planetarium from the outside and Risa on the inside, and an eclectic mix of Humans and humanoids sporting parkas and bikinis alike filtered through the lobby. As the rest of the party filed into changing rooms to shed their winter clothing, Sloane, who had seen no reason to wear anything but their swimsuit, waited in the sand as snowflakes melted off their bare shoulders.

Their father emerged first with their uncle at his side.

“The sand and water are all real,” Riker was explaining, gesturing at the skyline. “Everything beyond that is a holoprojection. Seamless, isn’t it?”

Geordi clapped him on the back. “Thought you weren’t a fan of artificial vacation destinations, Will.”

“Come on now,” Riker grinned. “A beach is a beach. Hey, kid, think you can beat me to the shoreline?”

Sloane did not do anything by halves, and neither did the captain. He kept pace with them for a few impressive meters before they inevitably pulled ahead, then loped the rest of the way to the water’s edge solo, chuckling to himself.

Data came next with Kestra on his hip and Lwaxana on his arm. The matriarch, gesticulating resplendently in an emerald cover-up, steered them toward the shore, and Data gave Geordi a quiet smile as they passed by. Thad trailed behind them, watching the clouds.

Finally, Deanna emerged, a tote bag swinging from her shoulder as she tied up the end of her braid. “Were you waiting for me, Geordi?”

He held aloft the blanket he’d taken from the lobby. “I thought you might want to sit down for a minute.”

She smiled. “You read my mind.”

They wove through the gently rolling dunes, sparsely dotted with couples and families lounging and chatting and sandcastle-building, until they came to a broad empty stretch. Geordi shook out the blanket as Deanna peered over her shoulder, shielding her eyes from the bright synthetic sun. The weather was, by design, ideal, the roar of the ocean perfectly modulated, and the murmur of other beach-goers pleasantly subdued.

“Your mother had the right idea,” Geordi remarked. Deanna grinned at him from behind her sunglasses and sat down at his side.

In the distance, Sloane alternately pursued and ran away from the lapping waves, and Lwaxana supervised as Riker and Data, waist-deep in the surf, tossed Kesta between them. Riker’s voice carried softly and clearly up the beach, singing an old Earth song:

“— _of what I say is meaningless, but I say it just to reach you, Kestra—”_

The elder Troi-Riker child sat a ways away, watching the activity at the water’s edge and tracing circles in the sand. The particular timbre of his loneliness struck Geordi a bit too close to home.

“Is Thad alright?”

“Oh yes, he’s talking to my mother.”

“Ahh. Has his empathic ability developed at all?”

“No, it remains very weak. My mother is the only person he’s able to communicate with, and only because her telepathic ability is unusually strong. He’s never more happy than when she visits.” Deanna kicked off her sandals and buried her feet in the sand. “I know it’s difficult for him, to get a taste of mental connection, and then be robbed of it again and again. I worry he’ll grow up feeling isolated because of it.”

Geordi leaned back on his elbows. “At least he can connect with you emotionally, if not, uh, verbally.”

“Yes, but it’s not the same.” She pursed her lips. “And we’re apart so often— I can’t be there for him the way I want to be. We’ve discussed sending him to Betazed for an extended period, but…” She trailed off.

He felt it again, a reservedness uncharacteristic of Deanna. He cleared his throat. “What about Kestra?”

“As far as I can tell, she has no empathic ability at all.”

The little girl shrieked as her father tossed her high, high above his head.

“She doesn’t seem to mind.”

Deanna laughed. “No, not in the slightest.” Abruptly, she turned to the engineer. “Geordi, when are you going to ask me what you’ve wanted to know since you got here?”

The intensity of her focus made his face burn. “I— I’m embarrassed to say it.”

“Then I will. You know as well as I do: though I am unable to sense Data, I have never doubted he has a rich and unique emotional life all his own.” Her tone was gentle but unapologetic. “And the same goes for Sloane.”

He gave her a wry smile. “Yeah, I figured that’s what you’d say, but you can’t blame me for wondering.”

“Mm. For what it’s worth, they strike me as quite happy and self-assured.”

Geordi let out a breath. “God, I’d hope so. We tried to get out ahead of the Soong-type insecurity, literally wrote self-confidence into their programming.”

Deanna laughed in surprise, a light, musical sound. “‘Soong-type insecurity?’”

“Sure, you know what I mean. Data’s always been pretty comfortable expressing confusion, concern, regret— even if he wouldn't cop to it. But we were married for three years before he could say ‘I love you’ without qualification, and even then… I’ve always wondered why _positive_ emotion is so much harder for him to cope with.”

“Ahh, I see,” Deanna hummed. “Yes, I—”

_No need to_ _make_ _everything_ _so complicated, little one._ _It’s as simple as this:_ _somebody, somewhere along the line told the poor thing he wasn’t allowed to feel happy._

Geordi looked quizzical. “Deanna?”

She removed her sunglasses and fixed him with an exasperated look. “I’m sorry. My mother is listening in on us.”

“She can keep that many plates spinning?”

“One of her many skills.” Deanna made her reply aloud, out of politeness or habit, Geordi did not know: “If that’s the case, surely he knows by now.”

_The distance between knowing and believing is as wide as the sea. Between believing something and living it, even wider._

Deanna’s brow furrowed. _Mother,_ _do_ _you_ _think Data is unhappy?_

_Happiness is fleeting and overrated! He positively radiates contentment, my dear. They all do._

The empath looked to the domed heavens with a little sigh and a smile. “My mother says she senses great contentment from you all.”

Geordi grinned, bashful. “That’s— that’s nice to hear. Thanks, Mrs. Troi.”

Only snippets of Riker’s song reached them now, the rest torn in other directions by the salt breeze. _“_ _S_ _ea shell eyes—”_ He handed the girl off to Data, who swung her in a wide circle; her knees, tucked close to her body, grazed the surf. _“_ _Windy smile—”_

A distant windsurfer crested a wave, and even with the telescopic power of his implants, Geordi was unable to determine if it was a real person or part of the holographic scenery. He decided he didn’t care.

Lying back on the blanket, Deanna folded her hands on her abdomen and took several deep breaths. Geordi watched her heart rate slow, her muscles relax, and for the first time since their arrival he felt her mental barricades begin to slip. The warmth of their decades-long friendship washed over him, a bone-deep sense of companionship that, with a start, he realized he had sorely missed.

“Hey,” he whispered, nudging her elbow. “There you are, Counselor. Commander, I mean.”

Dark eyes shut against the sun’s rays, she shook her head. “I don’t want to be either of those things, not for a long while. I know I’ve been distant. I didn’t have the strength, and didn’t want to flood you all with what I could not contain.”

A trace of pain, fleeting but intense, flickered through Geordi’s consciousness before the familiar warmth drowned it out. “Oh. Oh, Deanna, I—” _What_ _didn’t you say back there?_

“I never felt in any physical danger on Karthite. And when unrest started to build— I thought I could handle it. I’m used to juggling a starship’s worth of emotional highs and lows, after all.” She laughed, and there was no joy in it. “I was assigned to lead a diplomatic mission, but ended up coordinating psychological disaster relief in a police state on the brink of collapse. A year of going to sleep with other people’s hunger pangs in my stomach, waking up with foreign fear and anger in my heart. Mentally, there was no respite; politically, no sense of progression.” She looked at Geordi and unfurled an arm in his direction. “And now my son is a head taller than the last time I saw him. So forgive me, please. For not being at my best.”

“God, Deanna… there’s nothing to forgive.” He had heard about mounting tension on Karthite, just one of many far-flung, tenuously allied worlds, but nothing like this. He felt guilty for not following the planetary news more closely— but he hadn’t known there was any reason to, and when they spoke Deanna never intimated there might be. “You’re done there— you never have to go back.”

“No, I don’t. But myreplacement does. I hope, for their sake… that they handle it better than I could.”

“Right…” He pressed his hand into hers and did his best to mimic the embrace with his mind. “I’m so sorry. I can’t imagine what you’ve been through.”

“I would ask you not to try.” She shut her eyes once more. “I just need to feel all of you around me, and— I’ll return to myself. In a little time.”

Geordi focused all his mental energy on forming the message, making it so clear as to be unmistakable: _You’re home now, De. We’ll take care of you._

“ _When I cannot sing my heart—_ _”_

Walking back from the shore Riker picked up his song again. As he drew nearer to Thad, the boy stood, making a valiant effort to conceal the smile creeping across his serious face.

“ _I can only speak my mind—”_

The pair converged and Riker wrapped a dripping arm around his son’s thin shoulders, burying the last notes of the song in his mop of dark curls. Soon after, Data followed in the captain’s footsteps, the toddler in his arms gripping his ear with an intensity no organic Human could tolerate. Sloane slunk up behind their dad and clung to his free arm. Data planted a kiss on their shining forehead. Lwaxana alone lingered at the water’s edge, stately and mythic, as if without the intervention of the heir to the Holy Rings of Betazed the synthetic tide itself might cease, and Geordi found himself half believing it was true.

Deanna’s response didn’t take the form of words. It did not need to.

☼


	10. Night shift

The part of Sloane’s brain that never slept detected movement in the hallway, and they terminated their dream program. The guest room door creaked open a sliver, and an inky black iris peered into the darkness.

“Are you awake?”

“No.” Sloane whispered. They paused. “That was a joke. I am awake.”

Thad’s knee slipped from behind the door, then the rest of him. He wore what Sloane recognized as a Starfleet regulation undershirt many sizes too large for him, and yellow pajama pants.

Sloane sat up crossed-legged in bed. Because their parents had asked very nicely for them to remain decent for the duration of their visit, they were likewise sporting an over-large ‘fleet shirt. “Why are you here?”

Thad seemed a little thrown by the directness of the question. Thad struck Sloane as easily thrown in general. “I— wanted to talk.”

Sloane pushed their hair off their forehead. “Then talk.”

The boy crept into the room and crouched in the middle of the floor. He teetered there for several moments, illuminated by the moonlight pouring in through the ice-flecked window. Sloane considered that it might be easier for him if they broke the silence, but did not.

He nodded to himself. “Okay. When you and your dads showed up yesterday, you said you remembered my mother, even though you’d never met her before. And everyone acted weird and sort of teary-eyed. Why?”

Sloane’s answer was immediate and had a pre-scripted air: “In 2366, my dad created an android. She lived for six days before suffering cascade failure and being deactivated. After my creation, my dad put her memories in my brain. Lal knew Aunt Deanna, so I remembered her, too.”

Thad looked stunned. Just as Sloane suspected: easily thrown.

“You… your sister’s inside your head?”

Sloane considered which of a range of sighs they would emulate, and settled on Dr. Crusher’s. It had a certain superior, long-suffering flavor they prized. “No, Cousin Thad. She is not. I have her memories. That is all.”

The boy on the floor grimaced. “‘Cousin Thad?’”

“You are my cousin.”

“I mean, yeah, but— I don’t like how that sounds. Just Thad is fine.”

“Fine. You can call me just Sloane.”

“That’s what I planned on doing. You’re—” His face twisted again. “You’re not like Data, or Geordi even. You’re… rude.”

Sloane swung their legs off the edge of the bed and sank to the floor. “I am not the same as my parents. I am a kid. And I think that you are rude as well.”

Thad snorted. “Okay then.”

“Okay.” Sloane started unblinkingly at him. After a long, glacial moment in which Thad would not meet their eye, they asked: “Is that all?”

When Thad finally looked at his cousin, he did so with a barb on his tongue. But when he saw their face, he forgot it. They didn’t look as impatient as their choice of words suggested: their expression was largely neutral, open, but there was something else too, the shape of their brow, the curve of their lip—

As a ten-year-old, Thad had stayed a week at the cottage on Mars. His uncles were still moving in and the room he slept in smelled like it had been left too long to its own devices, and was surprised to find someone in it. They took him to the shipyards at Utopia Planitia to see where their shared home, the _Enterprise_ , had been built. It did not seem real. In the days when they all lived together, when he was very small and could not sleep, his mother or father would carry him to the heart of the ship to sit in the Chief Engineer’s office where he could feel the thrum of the warp coil in his uneasy stomach, or be passed from body to gold-uniformed body. His own muddled thoughts would be drowned out by murmurings of _deuterium injector offline_ _again_ and _cycle the EPS conduits_ _before alpha_ _arrives_ _,_ and a pair of pale hands or brown ones would stroke his forehead until his eyes became too heavy to keep open. In bed in the guest room of the cottage on Mars, he lay awake and listened to the hum of their voices in the next room, as he had always done. He wondered if Sloane ever did the same.

“Tell me—” Thad blurted out. “Tell me about my mom.”

Sloane was unfazed. “What do you want to know?”

“I want to know what she was like when you knew her, on the _Enterprise_ before I was born.”

“When my sister knew her,” Sloane corrected, extending a leg along the cold wooden floor, “she was the same, but she did not have so many wrinkles.”

Thad shook his head, a little wildly. “No! What was she _like,_ what did she do, what did she say?”

Sloane gave another sigh, but it was a thoughtful one, borrowed from Counselor Troi herself. “My sister did not live long, but she spent much of her time with Aunt Deanna. She thought she was very kind. She used… soft words. She said things like, ‘you are a delightful conversationalist,’ and ‘I need someone to finish this sundae for me, will you help?” She walked my sister to school, and—” Sloane frowned contemplatively, their gaze trained on the floor. “She brushed her hair. With her own brush from her room.”

There was a beat, then Thad spoke, voice low but attentive: “And what else?”

“And,” his cousin continued, “she was there when she died. My dad told my sister she was waiting for her outside. And my sister was glad she was there, because it made her feel less afraid.”

Thad was rubbing at his face. Sloane ducked their head to try and see under his hands.

“You are crying?”

“No.” He shot them a glaring look. “I don’t know. I—” And then he realized what it was, that something about their face that gave him pause before. A slight tension in their chin, the tiny crease between their eyebrows— it was exactly the face Geordi made when Thad would complain to him about school, or how his friends didn’t seem to like him, a face that said _go on kid, you’ve got my full attention,_ even if Thad knew his problems weren’t really worth his own time, let alone his uncle’s. The likeness was exact, as if Sloane had studied their father’s face in order to perfectly reproduce it. Maybe they had.

“Why would you cry for my sister?” Sloane was asking. “You did not know her.”

“I’m not crying for her. I mean— it is sad.” Thad wiped his nose on the shoulder of his shirt and took a deep breath. “My mom says that to me every time we have ice cream. ‘Help me finish it.’ She knows I like those last bits where it’s mostly melted.”

Sloane made another face he recognized: Data’s when you would tell him something like, _every dog has its day,_ and he would say something like, _animals are_ _not legally capable of_ _possess_ _ing_ _material goods, let alone_ _intangible concepts such as unit_ _s_ _of time_ _._ “Why would ice cream make you cry?”

Thad laughed but it came out more like a cough. “Because I miss my mom.”

And the room fell silent again.

From down the hallway there came the sound of a door being carefully opened, followed by shuffling footsteps. The children sat very still and listened as the steps progressed down the hall, drew near to the guest room door, then passed it. They remained frozen as the shuffling stopped, was replaced by the sound of running water. Then the footsteps made their way back down the hall. There was a light thud, and Thad bit his knuckle to keep from laughing as the midnight interloper swore in a voice that was distinctly his father’s. He maintained the posture until the door down the hall clicked closed again.

Thad leaned in conspiratorially. “Mom makes him use the guest bathroom at night,” he hissed, “because he pees so loud he wakes her up.”

Sloane’s shoulders quaked with silent laughter, and they made a wicked expression that was all their own.

“Hey.” Thad was up on his knees, and he inched over to Sloane and pushed on their shoulder. “I’ll show you something. Get down on your back. Yeah. Underneath.”

They did as he said, scooting sideways on their back until they were under the bed. Thad followed suit and scooted in after them until they were side by side, staring at the underside of the elegantly carved bed frame.

“You can see in the dark, right?”

“Yes.” Sloane traced a finger over a wooden slat. “It is covered in markings.”

“This used to be my room, or the one I stayed in when we lived here more often. When Kestra was born they let me have the attic. I drew these.”

A woman in ancient European armor plunged a sword into the neck of a were-targ, and grinned as its blood splattered across her cheek. Two dozen eyes— Human, alien, animal— stared and bugged and wept and rolled. A spider wound Romulan warbirds up in its web. A Galaxy-class starship streaked across a sky of shining graphite stars.

“You are relatively skilled at drawing.”

Thad looked down the bed toward his feet. “Thanks, but— do you think they’re cool?”

Sloane’s eyes glowed in the whiteness of the snow-reflected moonlight. “They are very cool.”

Biting back a smile, the artist squirmed out into the open again.

Sloane emerged halfway, leaning an elbow on the unforgiving floor. “I do not draw. My dad does, but it is boring stuff like squashed shapes or pictures of people. I did not know that it could be cool.”

The boy squatted with his hands planted on the floor. “Would you… do you want me to show you?”

His cousin’s eyes grew even wider. “Yes.” They blinked, inclined their head and added, “Please.”

Thad grinned, letting his dark curls fall across his face. He opened the bottom drawer of the dresser beside the window and began to dig out sheaves of wrinkled paper, pencils, and pens of a tantalizing variety of colors and thicknesses. Sloane drew their knees up to their chest and waited to be illuminated.

☼


	11. All in

Riker slid a stack of cards across the dining room table to Data, who slid it right back.  
  


“Apologies, Captain. I did not pack my dealer’s visor.”

The silver-bearded face broadened in a grin and he began to shuffle. “Okay. We’re playing flagship rules. For the uninitiated, or those of us who may need a refresher, that means: no card counting,” he inclined his head in Data’s direction; “no poking around the electromagnetic spectrum,” a nod to Geordi; “no emotional manipulation or telepathic scheming,” he gestured to his wife at his right and his mother-in-law at his left; “no puppy dog eyes, though Worf won’t get here for another few days, so I don’t anticipate problems on that front. And,” he pronounced, pressing a palm to his own chest, “no sore losing. Five card draw, nothing’s wild. Ante up.”

“Wait,” Deanna held on to his wrist. “Why don’t we make this a little more interesting? I play better with an element of risk.”

Riker began to deal. “Excellent idea. Strip poker it is.”

“Ooh, such fun!”

Lwaxana lounged insouciantly in her chair. “It seems to me those are rather low stakes, but I suppose I can’t complain.”

Data frowned agreeably. “Nor I.”

“Very funny,” Geordi remarked with a snort. He looked from face to face, and began to grow tense. “Really, you’re all fine with that? In the living room in the middle of the afternoon?”

“Ehh,” Riker quibbled, “evening.”

“ _Early_ evening.” Geordi wheeled on the android at his side. “Data, your modesty programming—!”

“Have you forgotten? I wrote a workaround several years ago in preparation for Beverly’s sixtieth birthday party.”

“I was in bed that night nursing a busted rib.”

“Was that your excuse?” Riker licked his thumb and flicked a card across the table.

Geordi caught it with a slap and folded his arms. “Yeah, it was. I picked up that broken rib on an away mission shielding _your_ fat head from falling debris.”

“Ah, so you did. Much appreciated.”

Deanna folded her hands on the tabletop. “Fine, what do you think of this: the loser shares their least proud parenting moment.”

“Absolutely not!” The keeper of the Sacred Chalice of Rixx bristled magnificently. “I refuse to submit to such indignity.”

“See, I don’t mind that one.” Geordi cowered in the intensity of Lwaxana’s glare. “Alright, alright, sorry Mrs. Troi. Here, I’ve got it: the winner is relieved of snow shoveling duty for the rest of the month. Sound good?”

“If the task of shoveling snow is onerous to you all, I would be happy to —” Data caught Geordi’s warning look. “Ah. What I meant to say is, I have no objection.”

No one did. Riker passed Lwaxana her last card, and the group examined their hands.

“Mm hmm. I’m in.” Deanna slid a chip to the center of the table.

Geordi followed suit. “Call.”

“I fold.” Data squared his cards and set them down.

Lwaxana clicked her tongue. “Bad luck, my dear. I— what’s the term? I raise.”

Riker lifted an eyebrow at her. “I’ll see that.”

Geordi and Deanna each added a chip to the pile.

“The difference between you and me, Mother, is I don’t concern myself with dignity the way you do. I have plenty of stories I’m willing to share. For example,” Deanna fanned and re-fanned her cards. “Once when Kestra was perhaps a year old, I had her on my lap at dinner. When I wasn’t looking, she took some _gagh_ from my plate and popped it into her mouth. She made the most terrible grimace, and after a while, one began crawling out of her nose. I hadn’t slept properly in weeks, you understand, so… I just watched it wriggle and wriggle until it wriggled all the way out.” The empath shrugged. “She survived. Three, please.”

“One for me. I dunno, De, that could turn out to be a formative event in Kestra’s life.” Geordi picked up his new card and made a noncommittal noise.

Lwaxana threw out two cards. “I would never have allowed you to put worms in your nose. Unless it was— some sort of therapeutic treatment, perhaps.”

“And dealer takes two,” Riker smiled widely. “Go on, Deanna.”

She held her cards to her chest and shot him a look. “Call.”

Geordi nodded to himself. “I’ll raise two.”

Lwaxana’s ruby lips curled and her eyes narrowed. “I’ll see the bet.”

Data was not watching the proceedings, but gazed thoughtfully over Riker’s head. “I can recall a parenting moment which might be classified as less than proud. I have often encouraged Sloane to emulate certain behaviors of organic life, as I have learned, to smooth social interaction and participate in Human culture. On one occasion, I suggested that as they prepared to utilize their dream program, they might behave as though they were tired. They told me, ‘I will not pretend I am something other than what I am.’” He spoke to the table but looked at Geordi. “It is increasingly clear their relationship to Humanness is markedly different than my own. It seems they consider my interest in emulating Humanity a strange and tiresome hobby.”

“Does that bother you?” The counselor asked.

“Not in the least. It is simply a surprise.”

“Kids are full of those.” Riker pushed his remaining chips into the pile. “All in. Let’s go.”

Deanna sighed. “That’s quite enough for me. Fold.”

“Yep. I fold.” Geordi swung his arm around the back of Data’s chair, and smiled at him.

Lwaxana rubbed her hands together. “Call. Let’s see what you have, Will—”

A king, a queen, a four, six, and ace.

Lwaxana laid down her cards, setting the pair of jacks apart. “It seems these two little gentlemen have led me to victory.”

“Well.” Riker stood and ambled toward the living room. “The fire was getting low, anyway.”

Geordi thumped the table. “You’re kidding, Will! I had a straight!” Deanna chuckled and placed a consoling hand on his knee.

Data’s brows were bunched together, his lips pursed in contemplation. “With all due respect, Mrs. Troi, even without your win, I find it unlikely you would be made to shovel any snow this visit.”

“Hang on, he’s right!” Geordi’s righteous indignation was building. “One of us was robbed, and I’m thinking it was me!”

“Poor thing,” Lwaxana cooed. “You should know better than to let the likes of my son-in-law get in your head. He’s all bark.”

“Serves me right, thinking my superior officer had any integrity.”

“Sorry, Geordi,” Riker called, crouched before the stove. “To make it up to you, I’ll let you live in my house for another week.”

Geordi pushed his chair away and leaned into a deep stretch. “Your generosity knows no bounds.”

“You know, my dears, the whole lot of you are doing just fine. Imza knows I committed far greater sins than the ones you’ve described. I do hope you’ve forgiven me most of them, little one.”

Deanna moved behind her mother’s chair and linked her arms around her neck. “I can’t imagine what you mean, Mother. You were a model parent.”

There was a fleeting exchange of facial expressions as the pair communicated privately, then Lwaxana laughed and Deanna pressed a kiss to her cheek.

“Just listen to your children and love them as they are. That will get you most of the way.”

Having shaken off his defeat, Geordi sat up and inched closer to Data. “What do you think, pal? Sound doable?”

Data’s expression was overwhelmingly heart-felt and sincere in that understated way of his, a face that said so much with so little. “Yes, I think so.” With the arching sweep of a hand, he gathered the cards and began to shuffle.

☼


	12. Home

_MARCH_

Life at the Troi-Riker house had a rhythm that begged to be fallen into. Snow-soaked hats and gloves which might normally be stuffed into cleaning or matter reclamation were hung by the wood stove to dry. Breakfast was served whenever someone got it started, and bled into lunch which bled into dinner. The chain of command within family units eroded as parents relaxed and bedtimes became more and more negotiable. By and by everyone was warm, everyone was fed, the front walk got shoveled every morning, and that was that. It was deliberately out of step with the highly compartmentalized lifestyle of Starfleet, and for many of the house’s occupants, the change of pace was sorely needed. For Sloane’s part, it was not so different than the one they knew back on Mars— which is where they would be by noon tomorrow.

All that last evening they lay with their head in Lwaxana’s lap and watched bodies filter through the living room to the kitchen, up and down the stairs, in and out the front door with a whisper of cold air. A Klingon, a half Klingon, and a quarter Betazoid prepared a dinner of _zilm'kach_ and fettuccine. A valiant effort was made to waltz to the unaccompanied trombone. There was a flurry of activity and _no no,_ _really_ _madam_ _,_ _don’t get up_ when the admiral arrived, and another as a bottle of wine was opened and proclaimed to be even better than last year’s. It got darker outside and more glowingly warm inside, and the fire was stoked hotter and hotter, and loved ones kept on arriving, kept on moving, in that house that was brought to life for one perfect perennial month each year— and then Sloane’s father gave their earlobe a little tug and said it was time for them to clear out their room.

When they were done they went next door to their parents’. Data sat on the four-poster bed, folding clothes into their luggage. Geordi was on his hands and knees fishing socks from underneath it.

“Then cancel your classes.”

“I can’t do that.”

“You certainly can.”

Sloane clambered onto the bed and hung around Data’s neck. He gave their leg a pat.

Geordi stood and tossed a wad of clothing on top of Data’s tidy work. “I just had a two-week break. I won’t throw my schedule out of whack just to stay here one more day.”

“Would you do it to stay at home another day? Perhaps you need a—”

“Don’t.”

“—a vacation from your vacation.”

Geordi groaned, but he was smiling. He came around the side of the bed to sit with them. “Say, kiddo, this is the longest trip we’ve taken you on. Feeling anxious to get back home?”

Sloane let themselves flop over onto their back. Their acute hearing picked up the click of a suitcase as their self-proclaimed _grand-père_ began unpacking in the room that had been theirs. “Not really.”

Data reached over and tucked their hair behind their ear. “Is that so?”

The 54.6 million kilometer journey from Alaska to their neighborhood on Mars could be traversed via solar cruiser in a matter of hours. The _Enterprise,_ currently in orbit around Alpha Centauri, could be reached in an instant by subspace transport. Sloane could reach either of these destinations in 0.0003 seconds, as quickly as they could summon them to the front of their mind.

Sloane considered the fact that you can have been somewhere without going there, and know someone without meeting them, because others can know them and remember them to you. Sloane imagined themselves being remembered in this way by the telepath whose lap their head recently inhabited, imagined the idea of Sloane she might share with others. They wondered how far they might travel that way— perhaps over all of Betazed, a planet populated by people uniquely skilled in the art of remembering and sharing.

They thought of their sister, who between the members of their extended space-faring family, had traveled farther perhaps than anyone, and of their father, who might one day do the same.

They remembered what Kahla told them, there in the underbrush next to the property damage they created together, and concluded she was right. To live a good life. To die an honorable death. To live in the minds of others. It could be acceptable to die like that— Even _if_ it’s still sad. They would have to tell her so.

They remembered, because Data had copied the memory to them, and because Geordi had sat very still in the lab for hours, his head and neck spotted with electrodes, so that Sloane could remember it from his perspective, too, the moment the idea _our child_ became the words “our child,” spoken on the front steps of their house on the date of a particularly significant anniversary. It was the first moment they began to exist. They summoned up another of the first few memories had been given, words their grandmother Juliana said to their dad 21 years before: a child born from parents who love each other will have nothing but goodness in their heart. For the thousandth time they unraveled the memory’s associated metadata, like running their fingers through the silty depths of a dark stream, and recognized in it what Data had not: love, anxiety, and hope. A desperate hope that it was true, and that it could be true again.

And they remembered, too, the scene they had left as they climbed the stairs: Thad and his mother in the living room, his gangly body threatening to surpass hers in height, curled into her lap like a much smaller child. She, whispering intently into his hair. His dark eyes closing and his face pressing into her neck. And they reflected that home was not just safety, but something like— seeing, or seeing deeply, or knowing, and telling someone in whatever way you are able, that you know them and see them deeply.

The remembrance lasted 0.008 seconds. Sloane crawled between their parents bodies— _p_ _ressure, texture, temperature_ _—_ and allowed an additional 1.5 seconds of silence before making their reply.

“I am already there.”

☼

**Author's Note:**

>  _And whether or not it is clear to you,_  
>  _no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should._  
> 
> 
> if you would like to hear Spock himself read Max Ehrmann’s “Desiderata,” the poem from which the title is taken, [here you go.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nuDmNWwzaus&ab_channel=DeadHippieMan)
> 
> on the off-chance you didn’t recognize it, Riker’s song is “Julia” by the Beatles. he would, wouldn’t he?
> 
> thank you [GaHoolianGirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GaHoolianGirl) for being my Android Kid Ethics consultant! check out her work!!
> 
> and thank _you_ so much for reading! for real, this one more than usual. please feel free to say hi if you want:
> 
> tumblr // strangesaturday
> 
> and join the [daforge discord server!](https://discord.com/invite/qMAGw5BqXg) it’s a chill place to be! (18+ only, please)


End file.
